


Weak

by Octarine



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alien Mythology/Religion, Blood, F/M, Highblood!Rose, Mutant!Dave, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Species Swap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-28
Updated: 2012-09-28
Packaged: 2017-11-15 05:38:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/523757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Octarine/pseuds/Octarine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It makes you burn with the familiar fire of rage, untamed and wild, the part of you that is animal rearing to get the vengeance that he deserves. The darkest parts of your mind whispering dangerous things like, “The blue blood needs to learn his place” or even, “Only you should have the right to touch him”. Thoughts like this are not good; they are natural, a part of you that you cannot rid yourself of no matter how much you study the mind and how it works, but they are simply not good. They are what make you a volatile force, what turns you into Mr. Hyde. You have no control over them and where there is no control there is weakness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weak

**Author's Note:**

> First time really writing from Rose's pov. So, of course, I choose to not only take on a new character but twist them into something darker at the same time. Wow, what were you thinking past self? Seriously.

The chiming of bells, soft and silvery, makes your ears perk up. The sound is foreign to you simply because it is hardly ever used and, honestly, the fact that it is going off at all is worrisome, unwelcome. You’re happy to live alone, you’re a solitary creature and you’re pleased to have your home, tall, dark, and ominous, all to yourself for once; your Lusus is out, she can come on land of course but whenever you intimidate her too much she likes to go take a dip, thankfully. Perhaps you should simply drag the creature on your doorstep inside so you may slit their throat. But nothing can ever be that simple, it’s probably going to be Roxana, the one person you wish to kill more than anything yet cannot simply because she is a touch higher than you, blood a bit pinker, a bit more pure. But it is unlike her to knock let alone ring the doorbell, usually she will simply barge in.

You sigh, rising from your seat on the floor in one of the highest rooms, setting your brush to the side as well as the cup of beautiful, thick, green. You take a moment to admire your work, the words starting with the darkest purple you had and progressively working their way down, a short bit of blue, some in cerulean, teal, and now green, each section progressively growing larger with the colors you have the most of. You leave the room, locking it behind you so the walls will remain undisturbed and unseen by all but the omniscient god you write them for, before drifting down the empty halls, all growing darker and plainer the farther down you go. When you cross through your living room you easily gather up your needles as you pass the tangle of rainbow colored string sitting on your couch. There’s no telling what she wants now but violence is always the best answer.

The familiar smell of blood greets you before you open the door, thick and appealing. You lick your lips, fingers twitching with the primal urge to paint your skin and the walls, to write out the words of your lord. But you refuse to give into such animalistic things outside of the safety of your tower. It is weak and it scares Strave.

That’s why there are certain rooms under lock and key, rooms that even your pale lover may not enter.

When you open the door you are greeted by a shivering form, grey skin painted a beautiful golden with smears of blue, the noblest of blues, and red, the rarest of colors. He is calling to you, a delicacy you could simply tear into, eating up every last drop. You must clench your fists to keep from reaching out to touch him, to control the urge to use what’s left of him to decorate your walls, a stunning, exotic, trophy; the ultimate act of devotion, both to him and to your god. But you successfully control yourself, you must, because you have enough sense to know that that part of you is not the sane part; it is not the stable, sensible, part of you that can be trusted by both yourself and others. You must keep that wild part of you under lock and key, too.

You usher him in, hands fluttering about his skin, both eager and reluctant to touch. He seems to recognize this, knowing you better than any other it shouldn’t be hard to, taking a wary step back and you immediately regret acting such a way. “I’m sorry,” you both say, his voice stiff to hide his worry while yours is open for all to hear, knowing that if it were any other way he would not trust you. This prompts him to crack a smile; stiff and uncomfortable just like his words, fighting to show you trust while feeling the need to cover it all up. “I shouldn’t have come,” he mumbles. “Stupid move on my part.”

“No,” you reply curtly. He doesn’t respond but the look on his face is enough to tell you he doesn’t buy it. Your inner struggle is one kept tucked away from those around you but he can spot it easily. “Strave, it's perfectly fine." Insistence is futile but you refuse to admit your pain to him even though that's what he's supposed to be for, an outlet, a shoulder to cry on and an ear to whisper into. But you are the same to him and he does not come to you. Which means that whatever has happened has finally broken his mask once more, he needs you to help build it back up. "What... Happened?"

"Johnen." He growls and you finally can see how he quakes with anger.

Your Moirallegiance is an odd one. You pity him, you do not see how a person could not, but you know that you mustn’t reveal this to him. He’s proud and strong, stubborn unlike anyone else you know. Well, perhaps Johnen. But pity is not seen as a respectable thing to him, it means he must be weak and he cannot accept that. If you ever let one of the little confessions of pity that so many appreciate slip from your lips he would take it the wrong way. You would be pretty disgusted with yourself as well but that’s not the point. You wonder if he actually pities you, he has no reason to, not really, so you strongly doubt it. If he ever dared to tell you, you would surely take it as bad as he. But that will not happen because that would be admitting weakness as well and that is something he refuses to do. You understand because you are the same way.

So, somehow you both have twisted Moirallegiance into something that works for the both of you. It is not based on pity but on respect and a strange sort of understanding. Trust too, but it is not the trust that comes with pity, knowing that someone is too weak to destroy you and somehow making such a concept into trust and love. Despite his mutation you recognize that he is as powerful as you and, despite your issues, he recognizes that you are as intelligent as he. You are complete opposites but identical at the same time.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur again, for once left with nothing better to say. You don’t like being left without words; it makes you feel weak. “I can do something if you-“

“No.” The fact that the word is not sharp and dangerous is what makes you flinch. He sounds broken, his voice hollow, his shoulders finally slumping in defeat.

It makes you burn with the familiar fire of rage, untamed and wild, the part of you that is animal rearing to get the vengeance that he deserves. The darkest parts of your mind whispering dangerous things like, “ _The blue blood needs to learn his place_ ” or even, “ _Only you should have the right to touch him_ ”. Thoughts like this are not good; they are natural, a part of you that you cannot rid yourself of no matter how much you study the mind and how it works, but they are simply not good. They are what make you a volatile force, what turns you into Mr. Hyde. You have no control over them and where there is no control there is weakness.

But with that burn there is a more unfamiliar feeling, the trickling of pity, a desire to protect him in a way that is not violent though you wouldn’t know how.

He should be speaking; he’s always speaking. The weight of his silence is heavy on your shoulders and you find yourself eager to rid yourself of it. You feel horrible when you realize you haven’t let him all the way in yet, that you haven’t tried to comfort him yet. Cuddles and feelings are not things that can be found in your relationship, instead it his constant, calming, rambling that serves to release all of his anger instead of a strife with his Lusus. So you step to the side, an invitation to enter, but he does not move.

“Strave…” The guilt is back tenfold. He doesn’t feel comfortable with coming in. “Strave, I promise you that it is safe, I will not harm you.” You try, slipping back into the doorway so you may attempt to pull him farther into the room. Instead you are pulled into a backbreaking hug, gangly arms tight around your waist and his body practically bent in half so he’s capable of pressing his face into the crook of your neck. He’s tall for one who is low on the spectrum and you’re short for one who is so high.

Physical contact is fleeting, at best. You will care for any wounds he may have and he will do the same for you, perhaps brush a strand of hair from the other’s face, hold their hand, be a literal shoulder to cry on. You have never really hugged, not that you can remember, and you are not prepared for the action, taking in a sharp breath.

“It’s so ridiculous!” He hisses out against your skin; breath hot, hot like the fire that will sometimes engulf you, sharp teeth brushing dangerously against your skin, sharp like your weapons that tear through skin as thick as yours so easily. This is your weakest point, your neck, pulsing with the lavender that gives you life and power. You stiffen, forcing down the compulsion to dig your needles into his beautifully painted skin that smells so sweet, to capture every last drop of ruby red and keep it, like a treasure, treat it the way it should be, as something exotic and special, something unique. But there is also a flare of warning in the back of your mind with it, telling you that he is another being who is strong, who is dangerous. You quickly correct your instincts, hoping he didn’t notice, but he is no fool.

He curses, tearing from the one-sided embrace as if burned. “I’m sorry,” he huffs out once more, taking a faltering step back. “We aren’t even, like, official Moirails even, what am I even- shit, this is embarrassing.”

“Strave, Strave it’s fine, I should be the one apologizing. I didn’t see that coming, I was just caught off guard.” You reply, catching his hands in your own, making sure your claws do not catch on his skin. “Come on, it’s fine…”

“You sure this is…”

“It is fine,” you reply and you push your dark thoughts back into their cage. You finally scan him over for the first time, noticing the red pooling on his lips, the pricks of blood where his neck meets shoulder, his shirt stretched to the side. “What did he do to you?”

“Another of his shitty pranks,” he growls, relaxing once more so his head hits your shoulder. Your lips twist into a smile as you crane your neck away to avoid being caught by one of his horns. He still has not grown into them, shooting up but not filling out. “I can’t take it Ro, I just can’t take it…” He continues, a twinge of desperation sneaking into his voice.

You shush him, running a hand through his thick black hair. You twist him around and he stumbles with you blindly so you may kick the door closed despite your restraining dress. This actually gets him to huff out a dry laugh against your skin. “You and your stupid voodoo robes.”

“You and your stupid shades.”

“Hey, don’t hate. You should be honored to have such a cool dude as your Moirail.” He replies before stiffening up once more. “I mean- not assuming we’re Moirails or anything-“

“Strave, stop. I can’t handle any more of your smooth moves; really, it’s too much for me to handle. We both know we’re Moirails.” You say firmly and he’s melted against you once more, not even trying to snap back. You stagger under his weight, simply because he’s so ridiculously tall, and he laughs at you some more. “I will carry you like a little grub if you don’t stop.”

“You don’t hear me complaining…” He sighs and once again you are struck by just how exhausted he sounds. So you walk him to the couch, no longer wavering under his weight but still awkwardly stumbling over each other’s feet.

When the backs of his knees meet the arm of the couch he falls back, pulling you with him. You let out a little gasp but allow it to happen, nonetheless. This is more physical contact than you’ve gotten in your entire life and it makes you squirm a bit when he nuzzles into your hair, between your own curving horns.

He’s too hot. His pulse too fast, too loud right beside your ear, and far too welcoming. But it makes you relax, not eager to put it to a stop.

“Aren’t we a pair…” he mumbles, taking the needles from your hand and simply allowing them to tumble to the floor.

“Strave, what provoked this? What did he do?” You demand, pushing yourself up so you may look down at him, grey eyes trying to find his own, bright behind the dark glass that hides their deformity.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” He replies and even though you cannot make them out behind his shades you know his eyes have flickered away.

“You always want to talk about it,” you insist, pushing his shades onto the top of his head.

His eyes are already blossoming with red. Bright, brilliant, ruby red that you are the only one trusted to see; it’s beautiful and, distantly, you realize that you would much rather admire it like this than have it on your walls.

“Did he threaten to tell Roxana?” You murmur, pulling gently at the strands of thick black hair that is now caked with blood.

“When doesn’t he…” Is the soft response and it breaks your heart.

Once again you are filled with rage but the need to comfort him overcomes it with ease. “Strave, Roxana is constantly drunk and the Empress won’t listen to some foolish blue blood who enjoys playing pranks. Relax.” You murmur, continuing to stroke his head and neck until he lets out a content little noise, something similar to what a bird would make.

He’s quiet for a moment, studying you. “Ro…”

“Yes?”

“I don’t wanna’ live this way anymore.”

You and Strave are different. You two simply weren’t made for this world.

You both are eager to change it, this horrible planet soon to be in the hands of a foolish girl only a sweep older than yourself, blood only a touch pinker, constantly under the fog of alcohol and still naïve to the world around her with her easily manageable Lusus and no dark desires capable of penetrating the fog. When she finally takes the throne from the current empress, an equally frustrating woman not fit to rule, you all will be even worse off. Something you thought you would never be able to say. Sadly you were very wrong.

There are just so many factors working against you. Your blood colors. The Hemospectrum that places you so close to power yet keeps you from it, that marks Strave as a mutant, a monster, someone who does not deserve to live even though he’s one of the greatest fighters you know, as brilliant and strong as you.

You simply were not meant for a world ruled like this. You don’t even understand the romantic system half of the time.

“I know, I know…” you breathe, bowing your head to press your lips to his forehead, the flaking golden blood a temptation that has been forgotten.

“It was even in a bucket…” He mumbles brokenly and you tear away with a hiss. He barks out a laugh at your expression of horror and pulls you back down. “Just kidding…”

“You insufferable, hypocritical-“

“I love you too, Ro.” He hums, tucking you against his chest. You growl lowly at him but it is weak and empty, especially when combined with the way you’re snuggling against him.


End file.
